The Widow Ginger

by Pip Granger

  I was very quiet at school and found myself concentrating hard on history, geography, English and even arithmetic, though the last always seemed to make my brain go numb with fright. I was running my heart out in PE ready for Sports Day, and I even sewed some place mats with chunky cross-stitch for the table at the new flat. We all had one with our name on. Sugar was particularly impressed and said he’d have me on the gold braid and seed pearls before I could blink.

  ‘I’m sure that Jenny will buck up, the way tackers do,’ Bandy assured me vaguely, before urging me to ‘Scoff another chocolate thingy, do.’ So I did, and it was delicious. Every Sunday, around eleven, Bandy would produce a large bag of pain au chocolat from the French bakers round the corner from her club. She’d stop off in the early hours and ‘quaff a cognac or two with Jean-Paul and purchase a large bag of warm, chocolate thingies, sorrows for the sweetening of. That’s if you’re too young for booze, which, of course, you are.’

  Sugar was different. He didn’t try to change the subject and he didn’t try to pretend things were better than they were. He was very much like Uncle Bert in that way. ‘Well, Rosie love, life can be tough, you know,’ he told me. ‘You lose people; it happens to us all. But the thing to remember is that you had to have ’em in the first place, otherwise you couldn’t lose ’em, now could you? So, in time, you remember when they were here more often than you remember that they’re not, and that makes up for it a bit. It’s just a question of time.’ This too was comforting in a way, I suppose, but not straight away. He was also reassuring about bears, saying that Uncle Bert was right: everyone was happy, so there was no blame to attach to anyone.

  T.C. was a regular visitor at the cafe. He’d heard about our fire and he hadn’t forgotten what Uncle Bert had told him about the Widow and fire insurance. He was worried, but like everyone else he had to wait for the Widow to reappear, like an evil genie in a puff of smoke. Until someone got wind of him, there was nothing anyone could do.

  He was sympathetic about Jenny. ‘It’s rotten for everyone, Rosie, especially Jenny’s parents and friends. It’s hard, realizing that people can leave us too soon.’ His crinkly eyes took on a faraway look. ‘They seem as if they must be there for ever and then they’re gone. There doesn’t seem to be any logic to it sometimes, and it’s like that with Jenny.’ I like a firm squeeze and he squeezed me good and hard. ‘But don’t go thinking anyone’s to blame, because they’re not. I agree with your uncle Bert. God’s above bribes and bargains.’

  Lately, T.C. had seemed to spend all his spare time at the cafe, or nearly all of it. Uncle Bert wondered what his boss thought of that. ‘Let’s face it,’ he told Auntie Maggie one afternoon, ‘the men in blue are not that keen on their officers hob-nobbing with villains or those hanging about on the fringes of villainy neither. Fires – plural – in Soho spells villainy. We know it, and sure as eggs is eggs those buggers know it. What’s more, you can bet your life some sod who has recently had his collar felt will have told the men in blue all about T.C. being here morning, noon and bleeding night.’

  Auntie Maggie nodded and looked sad. ‘And there’s Pat. Don’t forget her. Gawd knows what she thinks! He’s got her sister down to look after her. He says she understands. But what does she understand, that’s what I’d like to know?’ Nobody seemed to have an answer to that one.

  Still, I found it comforting to have T.C. on our side, even if it was causing trouble at his work and his home. I often caught him in a huddle with Uncle Bert, talking about safety precautions. A fire extinguisher appeared in the corner of the cafe and another at the top of the stairs. An old stirrup pump, from Uncle Bert’s firewatching days during the war, was hauled out from the cupboard under the stairs, ready for use. Pots and pans were left handy, I noticed. Most exciting of all, a black telephone appeared in the hall upstairs and another sat on Uncle Bert’s dresser at the back of the kitchen. Next to it, tacked to the wall, was a list of important telephone numbers: Sharky Finn’s, the cop shop, several for Maltese Joe and one for the bookie, Tic-Tac. I loved those telephones and longed for one of them to ring, but they didn’t, not for ages and ages.

  Around this time, Luigi was on the quiet side as well. He took my news about Jenny with sad-eyed calm. ‘Ah, Shorty, I’m sorry to hear that. That’s a swine, that is. Makes you wonder what the Man Upstairs reckons He’s up to. It was like that in the war, perfectly fit and healthy blokes, here today and gone tomorrow. It’s a bugger all right.’ And he patted my arm for a bit while I wondered what on earth he was talking about. Jenny hadn’t been perfectly fit and healthy for ages, but I didn’t like to ask because he seemed so sad.

  I hadn’t seen Betty Potts for a long while, not since she had been at the Marshall Street baths with Johnnie’s hand on her bum. It seemed to me that that might have been why Luigi was so unlike his normal self. Paulette agreed that Betty probably had something to do with it. ‘She’s gone all scarce on us for quite a while now. According to the girls at the club, she just comes in, does her shift and leaves again. Nobody’s seen her and Johnnie together, but rumour has it that him and Annie ain’t been hitting it off too well lately. They’ve been seen having words; worse, they’ve been ’eard. Sally says they was screaming good and proper between shows the other day. Annie’s had the hump all week and Johnnie’s stamping around biting everyone’s heads off. Sally says you daren’t even breathe around ’em any more.’

  We agreed that things did not look good for Luigi’s love-life.

  ‘Still, one thing to be grateful for,’ Madame Zelda said, ‘Maltese Joe’s lost interest, so he and Luigi ain’t on the outs no more. I think the club almost going up in flames showed Joe there was more in life to worry about than who gets Betty Potts. She’d made it pretty plain that he didn’t stand a snowflake’s chance in hell anyway. It’s no good for Joe’s reputation to be seen to be trying too hard and getting nowhere fast; best to concentrate on more pressing stuff. In a way, the Widow’s been a real face-saver for Joe. Of course, in another way, the man’s a right royal liability on all fronts, and the sooner he’s dealt with the better for everyone.’

  Which was true. We were still living in St Anne’s Court with Bandy and Sugar, which was lovely in some ways, but inconvenient in others. All the creeping about in the mornings was tricky, and it was virtually impossible to find room above the bath for anyone’s knickers because the little line was always full of Sugar’s stockings. In the end, we took our washing home and dried it in our own bathroom, which was easier.

  Although I loved Sugar and Bandy, and living with them was interesting and fun, I did miss my own bedroom. I missed being able to pick up a toy or a book when I felt like it and not having to wait for the next day to collect it from the cafe. And if I brought in anything new to the little flat, then something had to go back because of shortage of space. It was a nuisance all right.

  Another thing: you don’t really feel free to wander about in your knickers when there are strangers in the house. So, if I noticed yesterday’s dinner on the front of my school blouse, I couldn’t just charge out to the airing cupboard for a fresh one; I had to find my dressing gown, and that wasn’t always easy, given that tidying wasn’t one of my natural talents. Or so Auntie Maggie was always saying.

  It was during this time that I discovered just how hard waiting is. Everyone was waiting for something and it made it seem as if nothing was going on in the most maddening way. Luigi and Betty had stalled; Bandy, Sugar and our little family were waiting to go home. What made it harder was that absolutely nothing had happened since our fire, so our homes appeared all the more inviting. My toys and books were still there, waiting for me. At home, we could listen to the radio whenever we felt like it and not have to wait until everyone was up and about. Everyone was waiting for the Widow Ginger to resurface and, of course, we were all waiting to see what was in store for Jenny, Mrs Robbins and Hissing Sid.

  We were just talking about moving ourselves back home when the Widow Ginger delivered a dou
ble blow. He set fire to our cafe and Bandy’s place in the very early hours of a weekday morning. Bandy and Sugar closed up around one, half-past, on weekday mornings, punters being scarce mid-week. So he struck around two, when both of Joe’s boys, left as watchmen, were sparko. The first they knew of the fire was ‘toasting toes and a hooter full of smoke’, according to Sugar. Luckily, they were on hand to use the new, red, shiny fire extinguishers and Uncle Bert’s stirrup pump, and they put the fires out before they did much harm. But they didn’t get a hand on the Widow, which set Maltese Joe on the warpath.

  ‘What were the bloody fools doing?’ I heard him saying. ‘Kipping, that’s what. Counting bleeding sheep when they should’ve been feeling that sod’s collar, or at least grabbing him by the testicles. I’m surrounded by bleeding half-wits. They couldn’t find their own bloody wedding tackle without a sodding map.’

  ‘He was clever, Joe. Left it just long enough so that we were all off our guard.’ Sugar’s tone was reassuring. ‘We were even thinking of moving back home, the lot of us. We was all lulled into a false sense of security. Don’t blame your boys too much. We were all caught snoozing.’

  I don’t think it made Maltese Joe feel any better about it, though, judging by the black eyes and fat lips the watchmen were wearing next time they turned up for guard duty. As Sugar said, ‘He can be a tetchy little bundle, that Joe, very tetchy.’ It was agreed that the watchmen were unlikely to be caught nodding off again, but then it probably wouldn’t matter if they did; the Widow had made his point. We all knew he was still there, waiting.

  29

  I continued to visit Jenny after school, sometimes for just a few minutes and sometimes for a little longer. We all seemed to creep about, Hissing Sid, Mrs Robbins and me, and we talked a lot in whispers as if we were afraid any sudden noise would blow Jenny into the next world. She no longer seemed to be part of ours, which is how I knew for sure that Miss Smith was right.

  It was during what was to be my very last visit, although I didn’t know it at the time. Jenny rarely made sense any more. That’s when she was awake, which wasn’t often. I was just staring out of the window, wondering if Jenny would notice that I was there, when I realized something was missing from the view. Then I snuffled under the couch, searching for the binoculars, which had been abandoned when Jenny ran out of interest in them. I blew the dust off and adjusted the lenses, focusing on Kid’s flat. There was no teetering pile of washing up cluttering up the kitchen window. And in the living room, there was acres of clean carpet and there was Kid, just letting himself out of the flat and wearing his suit!

  Jenny was still asleep, so I whispered to Mrs Robbins that I had to go and I got out of there quicker than a dog with a stolen bone. I knew what it meant when Kid started taking a pride; it meant someone was making him do it, and the only person I knew who had managed that was the Widow.

  I tore down the road to the cafe and arrived just in time to find Maltese Joe supervising Mick the Tic as he was trying to replace the door after the latest fire. Mick’s eyes were swollen and he looked as if his ribs hurt. Bearing in mind Maltese Joe’s mood, I was careful to keep schtum until I was alone with my uncle Bert in the kitchen.

  ‘Uncle Bert,’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes, flower?’

  ‘I’ve just been to Jenny’s.’

  ‘I thought as much, when you was a bit late home from school. How is the poor little mite?’

  ‘Very poorly, Uncle Bert. She didn’t really wake up today.’ I took a deep breath, then said in a rush, ‘Guess what I saw, over at Kid’s place?’

  Uncle Bert stopped ladling stock through a sieve and waited for me to carry on. He stood very still, ladle in mid-air.

  ‘I saw Kid, all clean and in his suit and all the washing up had gone. His place looked tidy and everything. Last time it was like that, Uncle Bert, was when the Widow Ginger was staying there. He won’t let Kid be messy. He makes him tidy up and take baths all the time. I reckon he must be around, keeping an eye on things. What do you think?’

  He dropped his ladle. ‘Bloody hell! You’re right, Rosie. I’d better tell Joe toot bleeding sweet. Did you actually see Stanley, in the flat?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. I didn’t see anyone except Kid and he was on his way out.’

  Uncle Bert had already whipped off his apron, and now he ran through the cafe, yelling, ‘Joe, come with me.’ And he was gone.

  I wasn’t surprised when the Widow wasn’t found at Kid’s. But after what Uncle Bert called ‘a swift bit of illegal entry’ it was clear he had been there and was expected back; his luggage was in the bedroom, neatly packed. This meant he’d either just arrived or was expecting to leave in a hurry. Maltese Joe set his men to watch and to wait, yet again.

  The Widow was a real expert at disappearing. The first time I clapped eyes on him, I blinked and he disappeared. Outside the church, I turned my head for just a second and he was gone. And he’d been disappearing ever since. Usually in a cloud of petrol fumes and smoke. I was beginning to think he wasn’t human. Perhaps he really was the Devil’s spawn, like Auntie Maggie said he was. Especially if Maltese Joe couldn’t get a hold on him. I shivered and wondered where the Widow was and what he was planning to do to us next.

  It’s strange the things you remember. It was ‘the rough male kiss of blankets’, which made it another Monday. Miss Smith announced that Jenny had been taken to hospital at the weekend and had died in the early hours of Sunday morning.

  Madame Zelda said it was funny how people nearly always died in the early hours, ‘when the ’uman spirit’s at its lowest ebb’. Auntie Maggie gave me a long cuddle and said how sad it all was. And I suppose it was, but I didn’t cry this time, or howl like a dog. I took it very quietly, mostly because I didn’t know what it meant, not really. I didn’t know what came next.

  ‘Well, there’ll be a funeral, probably at the church, and then she’ll either be buried in the churchyard, or she’ll be cremated at the crematorium,’ T.C. explained.

  That’s when I found out that being cremated was the same as being burned, and I didn’t fancy it, not at all, not after the fires. I became quite obsessed with the question of whether Jenny was to be burned or not. I found it crept into my dreams and I’d wake up sweating and crying. Sometimes I felt suffocated, as if I was buried alive. I’d wake up so convinced that my mouth would be all gritty as if it was full of dirt or the ashes they talked about at funerals. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes; the whole thing was awful. So I took to sleeping with Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert again. Uncle Bert said I still had a hundred and ninety-three elbows, all working on his ribs.

  30

  I had seen Jenny for the last time. It felt as if it couldn’t be possible because I hadn’t said goodbye. There should have been time to say goodbye. If only I’d thought before rushing off like that, things might be different. I’m not sure what I thought would have happened, but I just knew that I hadn’t done things properly. One glimpse of a clean and tidy Kid and I’d shot out of that little flat without a backward glance.

  Auntie Maggie said that all the visits I had made more than made up for forgetting to say goodbye. She said I wasn’t to know that I was seeing Jenny for the last time. This was true, but it felt as if I ought to have known, to which she replied, rather sharply I thought, that I wasn’t God and that things like timing were up to Him.

  There was some disagreement among our nearest and dearest about whether I should attend Jenny’s funeral or not. People were worried about my nerves.

  ‘I think Rosie should be excused funerals, on the general principle that tackers have to learn about death soon enough, so why rub it in now? I say let her skive off.’ That was Bandy’s two penn’orth on the subject.

  Sugar wasn’t so sure. ‘I remember being left out of my Nan’s funeral. I loved that old duck and I never really forgave ’em for leaving me with mad Maureen and her snot-nosed kids. I just sat at the window and watched ’em all leave and I was still there two hour
s later when they got back without her. It took me a long time to accept my Nan’d gone. I reckon you should leave it up to Rosie. She’ll know what she wants to do.’

  When I talked it over with Madame Zelda, I realized that I did want to go to Jen’s funeral. It was that final goodbye that was bothering me. ‘Well, there’s your answer then,’ she said. ‘You’ll get the chance to finish things up proper if you go to the funeral. It’ll be trickier if you stay here. Your classmates from school are going, ain’t they? They wouldn’t be letting ’em go if they thought they’d be scarred for life or something. I reckon you’ll be OK, love. If I was you, I’d go.’

  My auntie Maggie swung into action. The funeral tea was to take place at the cafe. It had the room and enough chairs and tables for everyone who wanted to pay their respects to have a sit down with their sandwiches and cups of tea. Madame Zelda, Paulette and Mamma Campanini helped with the organization. An army of shoppers scoured Berwick Street market and the roads around it for sound tomatoes, juicy green cucumbers, watercress, lettuces, spring onions, radishes, cold cuts, eggs – Scotch and fresh – and cheeses. Enough bread, cakes and biscuits were ordered to feed the five thousand. Nobody was going to go short at Jenny’s ‘do’.

  I had to be dressed for the occasion. All the grown-ups had black, on account of the war and the Blitz and everything, but I didn’t. My clobber had to be chosen with care because it had to be useful afterwards. Kids didn’t wear a lot of black; grey, yes, and brown, but not black. In the end I wound up with a black pinafore dress in needlecord, with a little pocket in the bib for a hanky, a white blouse with lace collar and cuffs, a black cardigan and black patent leather T-bar shoes with white ankle socks. I was told I could wear my school mac if it rained and white gloves either way. The white gloves were a mistake. By the time I got in from the rain, the bible I was carrying had leaked dye all over them. They were all dark blue, black and grey blobs and streaks come the end. The dye even leaked right through and made my fingers murky too, so you’d never believe the scrubbing I’d had before we left for the church.